The butler's knock came once more, sharp and unyielding.
"Young Master Rosario. If you do not come now, I cannot guarantee your father's patience."
Rosario froze, the words slithering down his spine like ice water.
His father. The book had described him vividly: a man with a smile sharp enough to cut flesh, eyes that gleamed like polished knives, and a voice that could command armies with a whisper. One of the five pillars of the underworld. A king born of blood.
Rosario's palms grew damp. His throat tightened.
"I-I'm coming," he croaked, forcing his new baritone voice to work. It sounded strange to his own ears, but the butler merely bowed when Rosario cracked the door open.
The hallway stretched endlessly, walls lined with portraits of grim, sharp-eyed ancestors. Each painted figure seemed to glare at him, silently warning: You don't belong here.
His footsteps echoed as he followed the butler. The deeper they went, the heavier the air felt. Guards stood stationed at every corner, black-suited and stone-faced, their hands resting casually on weapons that weren't for decoration.
Finally, the butler pushed open a set of towering double doors.
The east parlor was vast and shadowed, the air thick with cigar smoke and the faint tang of wine. At the long table's head sat a man draped in black, his posture relaxed, his aura suffocating.
Rosario's new heart lurched violently in his chest.
There he was. The Devil himself.
"Rosario," the man said, his voice smooth as silk and just as dangerous. He didn't even look up from the glass of red wine swirling lazily in his hand. "You've kept me waiting."
Rosario's knees wobbled. He scrambled to bow awkwardly, nearly tripping over his own shoes.
"S-sorry, Father!"
The man's gaze lifted, crimson eyes locking onto him with the weight of a predator. A slow smile curved his lips, beautiful and terrifying all at once.
"Stand up straight."
Rosario obeyed instantly, his spine snapping upright. He felt the sweat trickling down his neck.
Don't mess up, don't mess up, don't mess up!
The silence stretched. The boss's eyes lingered on him too long, as though searching for flaws, for weakness. For cracks to break.
"You look pale," his father finally said, voice calm but heavy. "Has my son already forgotten what it means to be a Lobélia?"
Rosario swallowed hard. His brain screamed at him to say something—anything—but all that tumbled out was a weak, "N-no, Father. I haven't forgotten."
The man's smile widened, though it didn't reach his eyes.
"Good. Because in this world, weakness is death. And my son…" He leaned forward, the dim light sharpening his features into something demonic. "…you cannot afford to die."
Rosario's blood turned cold. His hands clenched tightly at his sides.
Inside, Amera was screaming